Believe
by yellowcottondresses
Summary: He was trying to believe. Like there was anything else he could do. Will-centric, takes place between 3x03 "I Can't Get Over You To Save My Life" and 3x05, "Road Happy".


**Author's Note: This was originally a much-longer story that failed to work out, but I saved some of the shorter drafted bits. Takes place between 3x03, "I Can't Get Over You To Save My Life" and 3x05, "Road Happy".**

**I don't own Nashville.**

_The moon is so bright outside that he doesn't need light to sneak out, but it would be too much like a spotlight in his eyes. Shining down on him like the entire world knows what he is._

_Also, he doesn't want to. Leave. _

_Tony's asleep, but he shifts around a lot. Something Will's not used to, because Layla used to sleep like the dead, and for the past few weeks he's slept by himself on the couch in the spare bedroom, cameras be damned. It's not like he has anything to hide from them anymore._

_Except._

.

They didn't manage to go all the way. Not at first.

The locker room was lightning-fast, Will too eager to hold anything back. They made it to a pile of mats in the corner, Will half-sprawled over them, the sweat-smelling edges digging into his spine while Tony slithered downward, pulling Will's pants and boxers with them.

The first touch without anything in the middle had him tilting his head all the way up to the ceiling, eyes shut. His hips bucked up and his fists clenched while the warm, hot mouth settled on him, and his tongue was doing things that made Will swear in languages that he was pretty sure hadn't even been invented yet. There was a wave of unbearable pressure rocketing through him, jolting his heart, and he gritted his teeth, feverish and incoherent, losing touch with himself in frantic rhythm, too desperate and needing and human to think about anything except that he needed this.

Will _needed_ this.

He was almost bent completely over the mats, feeling like if he held out any longer he'd be blasted apart, turning into nothing. With the heat roaring through him at full blast, even in the freezing locker room, he shook all over, inside and out.

Tony's hands gripped his waist tighter as he finished, nails digging into bare skin, but Will couldn't feel it – just the incredible burst of heat and light that came with the end. His own voice was rough and harsh as sand, stripped dry as he let go of the anger, the tension, the fear, the need he'd let boil in his gut, and scorched it all into the sweat-soaked, freezing air.

It was so silent in the room that even after Tony let go of him, sliding back up Will's body, his fingers peeling the t-shirt away and lips making their way up his chest. Skin still buzzing, Will closed his eyes and let Tony kiss his way up his body, hands on his frantic heartbeat and then on either side of his sweaty, red face, looking him in the eyes before leaning in for a kiss that didn't need to rush anything.

His mouth was softer than Will thought it would be. That was the first thought he could coherently put in his head, when he finally came down from the high. Before he lunged at Tony and dragged him in here. He had wide lips and a sweet, patient smile, and even when Will made that first desperate grab for his mouth Tony had met it with a knowing gentleness, like he knew this was happening long before Will did. Maybe since they saw each other that first time in the gym.

Who knew, really, and who gave a shit.

But his mouth was so soft. Patient. And way, way too gentle for what the two of them had just done.

He tried not to think about it, even as his head was still foggy from the aftermath. Thoughts still swimming, he yanked his pants up, pushed past Tony, and ran out of the locker room before either of them could say anything.

That was the first time.

.

They took the stairs two at a time. Tony announced he was taking a shower.

He pulled his shirt off, and then looked back at Will.

"You want one, too?"

They washed everywhere. The scalding water, the haze of the steam, the lack of friction, the slip-slide skin.

The second time.

.

They barely made it to the bed before he was already tugging at his boxers. He yanked Tony down on top of him, holding in place with one hand. He groaned, chest pounding, and all of sudden they were flipped over again, lips and hands and breath everywhere.

The third time.

.

"Jesus, man, you are shaking."

Will couldn't find anything to say to this. He wanted to lunge at Tony, capture his mouth and use it to forget everything he was going through – Layla, Jeff, the reality show, his failing single, his album slipping out of the top ten, the rumors that were still swirling around – but when he tried, Tony moved back, breaking the space between them with a hand on Will's chest.

"Whoa," he said, laughing softly. He held Will at a foot's distance, a foot too long for Will's liking. "Whoa. We don't need to rush this, okay?"

He reached up one hand, brushing stray hair out of Will's eyes. Will flinched without meaning to, though he wasn't sure what he was expecting – Tony's hands were calloused and rough from the gym equipment, but touched him so calmly and carefully, brushing the hair away like a feather so he could look Will in the eyes.

"We can do whatever you want," he said softly. "But we can take it slow, okay? No cameras here."

Will gulped. Out of habit, he couldn't help but glance in the corners of the hotel room, as if looking for the blinking red machines. Of course, there was nothing there, but the cold spreading through his stomach made him feel like Gina and the entire crew could just be waiting in the wings, ready to jump out with their flashing lights and boom mics and lenses shoved in his face, waiting to document his every move.

But Tony just kept looking at him, the darkness so quiet he could hear the both of them breathing – his ragged , Tony's infuriatingly calm.

Jesus, did nothing rattle this guy? Did he even feel fear?

Then again – he wasn't trying to get to the top of the country charts, keep his fake marriage together, and hold an angry wife at bay.

Tony leaned in closer to him, taking Will's hand and closing it over his own. It was so patient, so knowing, and he couldn't look at their hands intertwined, their fingers locking, so he stared at the floor instead.

"How about we move this," Tony said quietly.

A hotel room in Tulsa.

Afterward, Tony rolled on top of him, touching a hand to his chest.

"We should probably take it easy tomorrow," he said, grinning as he nuzzled Will's neck. "Too much exertion might get me in trouble with your boss."

Will had to smile. It was so stupid. He propped himself up on his elbows, and leaned in for a kiss.

Tony's eyes were so dark. They were almost entirely black, and so wide. Will always saw black-eyed monsters in horror movies, but Tony's dark eyes were syrupy and warm and smiling, and always so gentle. For eyes so dark, they glowed.

Will really liked those eyes. And he loved that, even in the dark, he could see them glittering. They were fucking gorgeous.

"Prob'ly a good idea," he said, grinning. "I don't think I can offer you workman's comp."

Tony smirked.

"It's okay," he said. "I'm not the litigious type."

They laughed, the fourth time.

.

There were things he knew now, that he didn't know before the fifth time:

Unbuttoning someone's shirt was almost unbearable if you did it button by button, but even if he felt like he was ready to burst, he almost didn't Tony to reach the last one.

Feeling someone else's heartbeat on the tip of your tongue felt like swallowing a thunderstorm. Pure electricity.

The tempo of lips meeting mattered more than he realized. It felt completely different to meet someone's mouth like you weren't jonesing for it, like you weren't desperate just to feel. When you didn't kiss like you were dying, it could make you feel so alive.

Tempo might be the most important thing, actually – the agonizing slowness with which hands clasped, fingers stroked, lips touched, clothes were peeled away and skin met skin inch by inch by agonizing, breathtaking, world-shaking inch.

He'd always been afraid of slowness, of waiting. Something about the quiet and stillness of things without motion, the anticipation of things to come, it had always scared him. Probably the way it invited things to creep inside his already fucked-up head. The way it let them crawl around, nesting and replaying behind his eyes. Like his father's anger; Jeff's warnings; Layla's fury. Drowning, consuming, relentless.

But for once, the slowness didn't terrify him, or make him want to make a move, just to get it over with; finish what he started, get the itch out that was crawling through his blood like some kinda parasite.

It felt more like the deep breath before the plunge – this time, into something he didn't feel like he was supposed to be afraid of.

He didn't know he had so much skin, until he felt someone touch every part of it. He didn't know there were so many parts of himself, and that all of them could suddenly feel like they were connected to the rest of him, the parts that were damaged and messy and broken.

He didn't feel like any of those things, right now.

He waited for it – when Tony had fallen asleep, Will crept to the bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror, and waited for it to show up. The sludge of shame crawling through his blood, the hot burn in his tightening chest that made it too hard to breathe, the voices in his head that confirmed every horrible belief he'd ever had about himself on his darkest nights, like that night at the train tracks. The feeling of being broken.

He stared at himself in the mirror, barely able to see his reflection in the dark bathroom. He was still naked, skin still red and flushed, scratch marks on his back, lips swollen, cheeks and chest scratched from Tony's beard stubble. He waited for it to all come rushing back, like it had that night with Brent. When he curled into himself under the sheets and couldn't get out, wrapping the covers around himself like a flimsy shield that couldn't protect him from anything, and Brent left and he had to die because there was no other way Will could live like this, no way he could be this.

He breathed in. Looked at himself in the mirror. The reflection in the mirror did the same. It looked like hell – rumpled and scratched and bruised. Bloodshot eyes, lank hair, face pale.

He stared at himself until his eyes blurred. Until they teared. Until it could look as if he'd been crying.

The bed was still warm when he crawled back under the covers. Exhaled slowly, sinking into the sheets. It was so quiet in this moonless room, the sound of Tony's breathing echoing through Will's skull as he closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of their breathing in tandem thud through both of them like a single heartbeat.

The last time brought a weird kind of silence - instead of being afraid of it, he felt quiet and calm. Like maybe, he'd finally get some rest.

.

There was never another time.

He hurt all over, but he still crawled to bed. Lay on top of the covers, the lights turned off, his eyes shut but his brain still replaying the last few hours, the ache of his ribs punctuating every memory of every kick, every punch; every hit.

"That's what you get, faggot."

Deacon's steps had faded from outside the door, and with each one the weight settled more into his stomach. One less person to keep secrets from meant one more person to fear.

Even if he wasn't totally sure Deacon was anything to be afraid of. Even if he might have actually looked concerned, when he saw the watercolor that was currently Will's face. Even if he sounded as if he might have given a shit, when he told Will to stay away from the parks.

He would have snorted, but the motion would have hurt his face too much. "Live and let live" was basically the non-Christian version of "love the sinner, hate the sin". Operative word being "hate". As if Deacon really gave a shit about some guy he barely knew. Deacon Claybourne didn't owe him anything, especially his privacy.

So basically, he was fucked.

He tried to lie back and get comfortable, but that wasn't happening anytime soon. He almost wished he had taken Deacon up on the offer to go get himself checked out, but that would mean doctors asking for an explanation.

Like that was gonna happen.

So he just lay there, trying to breathe though the pain. Trying to believe he didn't feel it, trying to believe that he hadn't gone as low as he ever believed he could go.

Trying to believe.

Like there was anything else he could do.


End file.
